


Dum Spiro Spero (While I Breathe, I Hope)

by red_edelweiss



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Grief, M/M, Post-S1, Richelieu's sick, but the affair is on - they just never talk about feelings, mutual unrequited pining, pre-s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 14:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10336976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_edelweiss/pseuds/red_edelweiss
Summary: His Grand Eminence Armand-Jean du Plessis de Richelieu was where he was destined to be and everything was right. Only recently it started to feel wrong. Horribly wrong.





	

Richelieu’s arrivals at court always caused small sensations, for as long as Tréville remembers. Interestingly, they rarely were caused by the way cardinal chose to arrive. Tréville himself often was an eye-witness to how more eccentric aristocrats, either to humor the king or just to be noticed (and often both), resorted to extremely desperate measures. The first prize in this contest, in the captain’s humble opinion, still belongs to Jean Philippe de Noailles, who last summer tried to pass the Louvre gate straddling what he described as a “tamed bear”, purely for the sake of “the thrill of excitement.”

Tréville completely ignored the etiquette and spent one hour arguing with the noble in the gate that wild animals did not belong within the walls of the royal courtyard. De Noailles pressed that Tréville was of lower rank and could not give him orders. Tréville shouted back that as a captain of the royal guard and the one personally responsible for the king’s safety, it was his fucking duty to protest when one wanted to ride inside Louvre on an uncollared and unchained brown bear (a _bear_ , for Christ’s sake!), and leave him practically under no supervision. The news about the unusual predicament reached Louis’ ears and he left the palace, excited as a child. Thankfully, when Tréville started to mentally prepare himself to defend the king from a raging bloodthirsty five hundred pounds of fur, teeth, and claws, the animal chose this exact moment to introduce the gathered crowd to its roar. Louis froze, paled, and probably just then realized what Tréville meant by insisting that the bear looked anything but “tamed”. In the end, the bear did not receive a royal permission to pass the gate, but its owner got the attention he wanted, as Louis considered the mere idea as a proof of courage and adventurous character. Richelieu immediately sabotaged the king’s own shy hopes of taming bears as soon as he heard about them.

No, unlike de Noailles, the cardinal did not need a bear or similarly impressive company for the court to notice his arrivals. It was enough that he just arrived. Dressed in his black leather doublet or red ecclesial robes, whether he walked through the gate of Louvre or rode through it on a horse, it was enough for the mood inside the palace to shift. “Richelieu’s arrived,” nobles whispered. “Red Devil is here,” nobles said in quiet voices, warning each other like mice could have about the sudden presence of a cat. Tréville got used to it through the years. He learned when Richelieu was by the king’s side just by looking at how others acted, what they said and more importantly, what they were _not_ saying. At first, he was irritated by how one man could command the crowd so absolutely; later, he was fascinated by it. Finally, when he lost both his heart and mind for the man who was First Minister of the Kingdom of France, seeing signs that Richelieu was present inside the Louvre’s walls brought a special feeling of comfort. His Grand Eminence Armand-Jean du Plessis de Richelieu was where he was destined to be and everything was right.

Only recently it started to feel wrong. Horribly wrong.

His arrivals are still the same small sensations as ever – but for all the wrong reasons possible and Tréville cannot stop his heart from breaking.

Firstly, the cardinal never attracted the attention by the _way_ he chose to appear at court but by _what_ he was. That changed the day Tréville heard – and ran like a madman to see it with his own two eyes – that cardinal Richelieu had to be carried to the Louvre in a litter. He was never a man to be _carried_. He walked on his own two feet, straight, proud and tall, still having the slightest trace of a soldier-like march in his steps. He never had to be carried… until now.

Secondly, he wore his ecclesial robes only on special occasions, when his religious duties required that of him; ordinary days had him in his black outfit, leather doublet and breeches and a long cape. This also has changed. Now Richelieu dresses – with the help of his servants – in silks and velvets he has been neglecting for so long. Some braver scoffers giggle that he remembered the role he was supposed to perform through all his life. It’s not true, Tréville knows. The reason why Richelieu chooses silk over leather is because silk is softer, it’s easier on skin, it’s easier to wear. He chooses silk because on deep crimson of a cardinal’s robe the blood is not as visible, it’s easier to hide it. The cape no longer adorns his shoulders. On these days it proves to be only an unnecessary weight, troublesome and heavy, so it has to go.

Thirdly, the nature of the whispers accompanying him has changed. Before they were colored with restrained hate and venom, sometimes layered with begrudging respect or resignation. Now they are hopeful, filled with joyful malice. “The Devil is going back go hell,” nobles whisper. “The cardinal is weaker and weaker”, nobles say. Cat is dying, mice quietly celebrate. “You’re very good at hiding your true emotions, monsieur!” By Christ’s grace, they have no idea. Tréville, as the loyal dog he is, should be running in circles from excitement that the bane of his existence, a dreadful grey-whiskered cat of sharp claws, is vanishing away day after day. Tréville should bark, waggle his non-existent tail and perk his ears.

But all he truly wants to do is to howl.

Today, when Richelieu leaves king Louis’ chamber after another private talk – no, Tréville stops himself right here and once again realizes with terror that Richelieu does not _leave_ anymore. He is _carried_ out of the chamber, his litter held by two men while he lies atop a stack of pillows. They look comfy. The position Richelieu’s in, slightly on the side, also looks comfy. But he’s pale, paler than the last time Tréville remembers him, and he doesn’t look comfortable at all. He wears his cardinal robes. Earlier, Tréville never noticed how _thoroughly_ red this outfit is. Richelieu is covered with crimson from the top of his head to the edge of his cassock. He never wore that much red. He never had to be carried. He never had to worry about hiding bloodstains.

Tréville’s heart breaks in two and he cannot speak, all he can do is to stare helplessly. Luckily for him, the attention of monsieur de Chambrun, the man he was arguing with moments ago, is also captured by the sight of cardinal Richelieu leav– being _carried_ out of king’s chamber. The dispute between a captain of the musketeers and a count is now completely forgotten.

“Memento mori,” de Chambrun whispers and Tréville shots him a look. The gentleman’s expression is a mask of dignity. He doesn’t scowl or have the nerve to smile, he’s simply serious. But that’s de Chambrun, a good man, one of the few at court, even if he and Tréville do not see eye to eye on most occasions. Like at this very moment, never mind the quarrel before.

“Still too early for such phrases, monsieur,” Tréville replies. He clutches at this thought like a madman.

“Not for long, I guess.”

“It may be longer than we’re all suspecting.”

“Oh, of that I’m sure,” de Chambrun nods gently, more to himself than to Tréville, his blonde hair catching reflections of the candles. He strokes his moustache. “Those of his kind do not go peacefully. God only knows.”

Just that, just that small affirmation that maybe, _maybe_ , makes Tréville glance at de Chambrun quickly but with a fever in his gaze, and he has to turn his head away to not be caught. Just a small hint of hope. Just the smallest hint of hope that cardinal is going to get through it, and it’s easier for him to breathe.

Monsieur de Chambrun is a good, merciful man. Never mind the quarrel before.

“Captain Tréville!”

How he doesn’t flinch at the voice is beyond him. The room falls silent. His eyes search the source of it, which is… one of Richelieu’s servants.

_Oh, God, no._

The litter is placed down. Richelieu winces when the four legs tap against the marble floor.

_God, no, please._

The servant, a young man in a Red Guard uniform walks up to Tréville. He leans in.

“His Eminence wishes to speak to you, captain.”

_God, please, I will not be able to control myself._

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

Richelieu looks at him, lying on the side and waiting, a smudge of red across black and golden pillows. His face is unreadable and he waits.

What are you doing, you fool, Tréville thinks as he nods, takes off his hat and starts to cross the room, all eyes fixed on him, he feels them creeping at his back. What are you doing. You want me to howl in public like the dog I feel I am, asking you to not die? You want me to make a scene, just like Louis the first time he saw you like this? Because that’s what I want to do. Because it’s yet another day when I see you in this state. Because it’s getting worse and not getting better.

Because you always walked on your own and never had to be _carried_.

Now it’s too late and he stands in front of the litter, in front of Richelieu. The cardinal waves at his other servant, and the man promptly leaves to give them privacy. The crowd around them returns to their conversations, although they are still being discreetly watched, Tréville knows.

Something unidentified tickles his nose. He starts to hallucinate out of grief? It isn’t that impossible.

“Cap…captain…” Richelieu tries to say, but Tréville more reads the word from the movement of his lips than actually hears it. No, this will not do. He has to kneel and lean forward if he wants to talk with Richelieu relatively normally.

He has to _kneel_ in front of him and they are in _court_.

Fuck the court.

Without thinking twice, his left knee gives in and he kneels – and then the previously unidentified smell that tickled his nose now openly attacks his nostrils and before he can restrain himself, Tréville ducks his head, his gloved hand darts to cover his mouth and he sneezes, loudly.

Damn him, damn him, _damn him_!…

“I apologize, I…” he takes his hand from his mouth and turns to face Richelieu again – the scent assaults him on the spot, but now he’s prepared and he blinks in surprise.

That something which attacked his nose is apparently a fragrance Richelieu wears. From what it is made, Tréville cannot tell because he knows shit about fashion and cosmetics. Still, he doesn’t have to know much about its origins to sense that it’s so goddamn powerful it nearly makes his eyes sting.

Richelieu never used such strong perfumes.

“No need to apologize. It should be me who asks for it, captain,” the voice of the cardinal is tired. “I assure you, though, it’s…” he pauses, as if he was hesitating, “it’s still much better than how I smell without it.”

He always smelled beautifully, like incense, books and a distant note of whatever perfume he chose for himself on that day. And now he has to practically bathe in _this_ to mask… mask what exactly-

Tréville grits his teeth.

Another reason why Richelieu wears silks now. Leather is hard to be perfumed. Silks capture the scent for a long time.

_Do not howl, do not howl, do not howl…_

“It’s only a minor inconvenience, Your Eminence,” he says instead and prides himself that his voice doesn’t tremble. “You wished to have a word with me.”

“Yes, that is… Unless I averted your attention from more important matters…”

Tréville forgets he wants to howl because both the tone this sentence is delivered in and the expression that accompanies it are somewhat enigmatic. He frowns in confusion. He remembers that they are at court and have to read between the lines, dancing around the meaning, but he is utterly lost as to what Richelieu might be possibly addressing. His thoughts travel back a bit, when he was standing next to de Chambrun and…

_Ah._

“Oh, it was nothing, truly. Comte de Chambrun is a man of views absolutely clashing with my own, but he is not half as irritating as Your Eminence; therefore, he cannot compare.”

“Is he?”

“I swear on my honor.”

He meant it as a joke, but Richelieu’s reaction is not one to a jest. He lowers his gaze and the slight smile spreading on his face is mirthless but oddly… content.

“Even when I least expect it, you still pay me such high compliments, captain. It’s generous, I appreciate it.”

It explains absolutely nothing, and Tréville cannot possibly start guessing what it means - but he sees the smile, so he must have done something right. He’s not entirely sure what exactly, but it had to be right.

_I don’t have the head for this. I never had._

“I merely try to keep up with Your Eminence,” he breathes.

“You’re failing.”

“Your Eminence seems to be awfully determined to prove it to me.”

“Maybe I am, captain, maybe I am.”

The banter feels good, it feels right, it feels like the days before Richelieu had to be carried, started wearing red and smelled of perfumes that didn’t suit him. It’s enough to light a fire in Tréville’s blue eyes, even if he still minds himself not to smirk.

“I’d like to… ask you to pay me a visit, captain.”

Tréville’s heart nearly jumps.

“When?”

“At your _earliest_ convenience.” The way he pronounces “earliest” is oddly tense.

God, does he suddenly think he does not have any more time to waste?

“I can appear in the Palais-Cardinal this very evening.”

Richelieu’s eyes widen. “No!” he blurts out and just then he appears to reflect on what he has said.  “By this, I mean… I don’t feel my best in the evenings. In the mornings I have… more strength.”

It sounds uncertain. It sounds like a lie.

They are in court and Tréville knows he needs to decipher what is being unsaid and fill in the voids. Now, he doesn’t have to think intensively to guess what Richelieu decides to omit. The cardinal doesn’t necessarily feel better in the mornings; it depends entirely on how the previous night went. What he truly means is that in the morning he has time to prepare himself. To call for servants to help him get up– to _carry_ him out of bed, to wash him, to assist him in putting on fragrance masking the odor of his sickness and dressing him in his red cardinal robes, hiding the bloodstains. If Tréville arrives in the morning, he will give Richelieu a chance to become presentable, whereas if he is to arrive this evening…

God, Tréville searches Richelieu’s eyes with his own and their gazes lock. God, how much power must you have in yourself to still arrive to court like this? How much does it cost you? Your dark circles under the eyes, hollow cheeks, and pale face betray you, Armand. The road to the Palais-Cardinal and back must be a torment for you, and you still find a way. A litter. Red robes. Perfumes. I heard that you had the main gate blown up because you have to lie in a carriage, and the one you’re using now was too wide to fit through the old entrance of your residence.

What are you afraid of, Tréville wants to laugh bitterly, that I’ll see you in bed, stinking, coughing blood and I will run away in disgust?

He had his chances to run away. More than one, through all these years. He could have run for the hills after La Rochelle, after Savoy, after the incident with the Queen, to name only a few pretexts, good, reasonable pretexts. But he never was good, nor he was reasonable, not in this. Even right now he wants to kiss cardinal’s dry lips and press his mouth to the cold, thin fingers.

_I love you, you bastard, and it scares me, and I am damn lucky that you have no idea about it._

“I am at Your service, Eminence. However, I repeat, if you perceive the reason for our meeting as a truly urgent one, I am ready to appear in the Palais as soon as this evening. No matter the odds.”

Richelieu’s eyes are glassy, intense.

“If I knew this is what it takes to bring you to your knees, captain, I’d have fallen ill a long time ago.”

_Asshole._

_I love you so much._

“I feel obligated to notice that I am only on one knee, Your Eminence. You’re only halfway through.”

At this retort, something weird enters Richelieu’s gaze. Sadness, perhaps? Disappointment? “As unyielding as ever, captain, as unyielding as ever.”

_I don’t have the head for this. I never had._

There is a moment of silence.

“In the evening then, captain Tréville. Today.”

“As Your Eminence wishes of me.”

“Very well. Thank you for your time.”

Tréville nods and gets up from the floor. His knee is killing him. No matter. He straightens up. Two servants see this and immediately step closer to take their positions at both ends of the litter to pick it up. Tréville turns on his heel and walks away. He hears a grunt, he is almost sure it’s a grunt of pain, and he’s acutely aware from whose lips it falls.

_God, if You were truly as merciful as I hear in sermons, You’d take half of my constitution of a horse and give it to him instead. He is… he is everything and I’m just a mere soldier._

_He should be the one burying me, not the other way around._

Monsieur de Chambrun waits for him.

“You don’t look well, captain Tréville.”

No, he doesn’t look well. He doesn’t feel like it.

“I feel certainly better than the cardinal.”

“That’s for sure!” There is sympathy written across the noble’s face. Tréville with slight surprise realizes that it is probably meant for him. “It was such a short talk between you two, but it looks like even on his deathbed that devil is able to effectively spoil anybody’s day, especially yours.”

Monsieur de Chambrun is a good man, even though he and Tréville almost never see eye to eye. Like at this very moment. Further discussion is pointless, though.

“I’ll survive,” Tréville murmurs almost absent-mindedly.

He will. At least until sunset. At least until he takes his horse and rides through the new, widened gate of the Palais-Cardinal. At least until he passes through the doorstep of Richelieu’s bedroom. At least until he sees him and they are finally alone.

And then, Tréville knows, only then will he finally be able to break into a thousand pieces.

He will be able to howl to his heart’s content.


End file.
